


The Devil Went Down to Glenview

by acareeroutofrobbingbanks



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, No Sex, Tumblr request, and patrick's in high school, but with no sex, so pete's the devil, they wanted something like bewentzed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 05:16:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3516764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acareeroutofrobbingbanks/pseuds/acareeroutofrobbingbanks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well the Devil went down to Glenview<br/>He was lookin' for a soul to steal<br/>And said, "Boy, let me tell you what<br/>I'll bet a gold gramophone against your soul<br/>I think I'm a better musician than you"”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil Went Down to Glenview

_“Well the Devil went down to Glenview_

_He was lookin' for a soul to steal_

_He was in a bind 'cause he was way behind_

_And he was willin' to make a deal_

_When he came across this young man_

_Strummin' on a guitar and playin' it hot_

_And the Devil jumped up on a hickory stump_

_And said, "Boy, let me tell you what"_

_"You probably didn't know it_

_But I'm a musician too_

_And if you care to take a dare_

_I'll just make a bet with you"_

_"Now you put on a pretty good show, boy_

_But give the Devil his due_

_I'll bet a gold gramophone against your soul_

_I think I'm a better musician than you"”_

__

It really wasn’t that Pete was soft.

It wasn’t, honest. He just had a really bad habit of falling in love with his potential victims. (And coworkers, and an angel a time or two, but that was hardly the point.)

“Wentzzzzzzzz!” the demon hissed in his ear, courier demon, so far beneath him, he shouldn’t have to take orders from the likes of him, he was Pete Wentz, and he was much better than this. “Thisssss issss you lasssst chancccce!” it hissed, and Pete swiped at his shoulder, the demon disappearing in a puff of smoke.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he muttered, shrugging on the black leather jacket he loved so much. He had worn it since the seventies, and the thought that he might be losing it soon was enough to make his heart break. People never stayed. The jacket had stayed for longer than anything else in Pete’s existence, and turning into a wisp of smoke to torture souls for all eternity sounded awful. Or worse, he could be stuck as a human. Pete shuddered at the thought.

Chicago was always a promising place to start, and he’d found some of his best deals there. Pete had a bit of a monopoly on Illinois politicians.

And as easy as it would have been to bag another oily politician, another feather in his cap, this time he had to get a hard soul, a soul that shouldn’t have been corrupted. A challenge. Maybe he ought to start in the suburbs, find some kid with big city dreams, and knock them down a peg. He switched to a suburb of Chicago, so he could find someone that could be considered a challeng.

“Challenge,” Pete spat on the sidewalk. A girl shrieked, and Pete reeled back, just now noticing the human he had spat on, sitting on the dirty side of the road for some reason.

“What the hell?!” she squeaked, shaking the glob of spit off of her hand.

“What were you doing down there?” Pete asked, defensive. She scoffed, and pointed directly above her head. Pete looked up to see a dirty, small town marquee, with black plastic letters lined up to say “Patrick Stump”.

“I’ve been in line since four this afternoon!” she said. “This show is supposed to be great!”

“Never heard of the guy,” Pete said.

“Never heard ‘This City’?” she asked, in total disbelief. “What, do you live underground?”

“Something like that.” Pete agreed. He looked back up at the neon yellow marquee.

“It’s been playing on the radio here nonstop for months, and they say it even aired on a Chicago station!” she continued, excited, but Pete was no longer paying attention to her.

“‘Patrick Stump’,” Pete murmured to himself. “Maybe.”

Pete didn’t bother with buying a ticket, he just walked in. Something about the fire in his eyes (literal fire, flames licking at his eyelids) made people seem to just give him things for free. Convenient. Another perk of hell that he wasn’t exactly willing to give up.

He waded through the crowd, getting to the thickest section of people so that he could see the stage well. The opener wasn’t someone Pete was even vaguely interested, but they knew they were awful, so if Patrick didn’t work out, he could go find them. Musicians were easy picking, they’d all sell their soul to get famous.

But then Patrick came onstage, and all of the breath was sucked out of Pete in one moment. He was beautiful, stage lights shimmering in platinum blonde hair, well fitted suit (and perhaps it was a stereotype, but god, creatures like Pete couldn’t help but fall for well fitted suits) and a bow tie. He didn’t look like the kind of kid that came from a shitty small town like this.

Patrick smiled down at the crowd, with an air of someone forcing themselves to get over being shy. It must have been his first tour, because he introduced the first song very mild manneredly, rather than just jumping in playing, but once he started, he came to life. He had, shockingly, moves, and more shockingly, talent. Pete was expecting the typical pop musician, putty in his hands even more so than in their record labels, but somehow this kid knew what he was doing. he could dance, he could play, and holy hell, he could sing better than Pete had heard in a century.

Patrick strutted around the stage with confidence, seeming to forget the crowd during songs, then looking bashful and blushy in between them. To Pete’s immense surprise, he found himself madly disappointed when the show ended, the setlist too short. The show had been amazing, with no thanks to technological enhancements. Pete had practically invented auto tune singlehandedly. He knew when it was being used, and this kid was going all natural.

Pete ran out after the show, standing in front of the van that the back up band was loading amps into. Patrick walked out after a few minutes, no longer in a suit, wearing instead a plain outfit of jeans, with a hat jammed onto his head. He frowned when he saw Pete, then laughed a little uncertainly.

“How’d you get back here?” Patrick asked, looking around his shoulder.

“Can I talk to you in private for a moment, Mr Stump?” Pete asked, his voice silky. As soon as Pete finished his sentence, Patrick’s tentative look melted into a glare.

“Don’t you ‘Mr Stump’ me, asshole, I’ve so had it with you leechy weird record company lackies slobbering all over my dick when you aren’t even actually interested in-”

“I’m not with a record company,” Pete interrupted him, then amended; “Anymore.”

“What do you want?” Patrick asked sourly. Up close, he looked much younger than he did on stage. Very young, with wide eyes. Pete grinned.

“May I speak with you in private?” Pete asked again.

“Sure.” Patrick replied, his tone still sharp and on edge. Pete snapped his fingers, and with a puff of heavy, spicy smelling smoke, the two of them appeared in a room entirely made of red velvet everything, from the chairs to the walls to the floor. Pete had a tendency to be a tad bit dramatic.

Patrick’s eyes widened, his chest puffing out and his eyes betraying his fear as he spoke out.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Patrick,” Pete said, sticking his hand out and smiling, revealing his elongated canines, made to look like vampire fangs. “I’m the devil. But you can call me Pete.”

It turned out to be good that Pete picked the velvet room, because it provided a soft place to land when Patrick passed out.

***

“Hey, kid?” Pete was starting to get kind of worried, because Patrick was largely silent when he woke up.

“Hmm?” Patrick asked.

“You okay?” Pete asked.

“Am I in hell?” Patrick asked instead of responding.

“I mean,” Pete paused, biting his lip. “Kind of. Not the way you think, but yes, this room is, technically speaking, in hell. You aren’t dead though.”

“Well that’s a relief.” Patrick said. “I haven’t even won a Grammy yet.” Pete turned sharply. This was his moment.

“You want a grammy, kid?” Pete asked.

“No, I’m a musician because I never want anyone to hear my music.” Patrick said. It took Pete a second to catch the sarcasm, and he rolled his eyes when he did.

“Cut the sass kid, I’m the Prince of Darkness. The Adversary.”

“And I’m not Christian.” Patrick replied. “So you aren’t my Adversary.”

“Look,” Pete tried to get the conversation back on track. The further he let this dissolve into banter, the more likely he was to fall in love with the target. Again. “You think you’re pretty hot shit, right?”

“I’m the best musician I know,” Patrick said, holding his head up with pride. Pete grinned. Pride was his favorite sin in people.

“I play too, you know,” Pete said. Patrick raised his eyebrows.

“The devil really is in rock and roll,” Patrick snorted. Pete tried not to admire the kid, who wasn’t more than twenty, that was in hell and still full of snark for him.

“I’d like to make a deal,” Pete said. “Your soul, in exchange for a grammy.”

“Psh, yeah right,” Patrick said, leaning back. “I’m not interested. I can get a grammy on my own, thanks. So there’s nothing in it for me.”

“You want a grammy!” Pete said. Accusations in his voice.

“Yeah, and I can get one on my own.” Patrick said, his voice filled with pride. “Give me a challenge.”

Pete’s face lit up.

“A challenge?” he asked, excitement creeping into his voice. Patrick shrugged in the affirmative, hands crossed over his chest.

“You know, I’m a musician too,” Pete told him, smiling broadly.

“You mentioned.” Patrick agreed, leaning forward.

“How about this, sweetie” Pete began, “I will personally guarantee that you will get a grammy in the next three years if you can best me in music. If you lose, I get your soul.” This was the moment Pete looked forward to. When the silence hung thick and heavy in the room, the tension something so palpable it could be cut with a knife, while the mortal deliberated. But Patrick just barked out a laugh again, shattering the air Pete had worked so hard to prepare.

“Sure, totally,” Patrick said. “Easy. It’s a deal.”

“Wait, what?” Pete asked, leaning forward in his chair and leaning on his elbow, staring the kid down. “You don’t wanna think about this first?”

“I can beat you easily, and then I’ll be able to know I beat the devil. Plus, if it means I can get a Grammy without having to deal with record execs, yeah, what am I really using my soul for anyway?”

“Getting into heaven?” Pete suggested.

“Not really Christian.” Patrick shrugged.

“Well, I guess, but-” Pete began, then cut himself off. Why should he convince the kid to not bet his soul? “Great then.” He shook Patrick’s hand, and said, “The contract is sealed.”

Pete felt the sting as their palms connected, the contract burning between them the way it always did. Patrick hissed at the burning sensation, catching Pete’s eyes with a look of fear in them, and Pete felt something- almost remorse, but then Patrick was gone.

“And let the games begin.” he said.

***

For a small town, Pete was beginning to realize that Glenview had a very ambitious music scene. And since he hadn’t wanted to crush Patrick too fast, he picked a genre he was less comfortable with than rock, but he was beginning to regret it. Patrick wasn’t the only musician in this town, and Pete was quickly seeing that this was the kind of place where he would have to scream to be heard.

First, Pete needed a singer. He thought it would sting the most if he could get a friend of Patrick’s, but he couldn’t seem to find out where the kid’s day job was. The price Pete payed for playing a fair game, was humanity, and it was maddeningly inconvenient.

So he met a girl that worked at the venue he had met Patrick at. Her name was Bebe, she was sweet, sounded nothing like Patrick, but she could really be something. And Pete knew how to make anything popular. Pete spun sound into gold.

The venue, hilariously called The Devil’s Lounge, had a flyer hanging up in the men’s restroom advertising another Patrick Stump concert coming up, and Pete convinced the owner that his new project, the Black Cards, should open for Patrick.

To Pete’s complete lack of surprise, the venue owner didn’t put up much of a fight.

Pete hung around The Devil’s Lounge, lurking in corners and blending into the shadows pretty well, waiting for Patrick to show up so he could see him. Some new band would be playing that night, but he expected Patrick to be there. Eager kid in the music scene, he should be scoping out the competition. But hours went by, and Patrick never came.

Pete walked up to the owner, asking him where Patrick was, and the man laughed.

“He wouldn’t be out here tonight,” the guys said, wiping down the bar. “Do you know what night it is?”

“Wednesday?” Pete asked, dumbfounded.

“It’s a school night,” the man said slowly, like Pete was thick. Pete’s heart sank. School night. As in-

“He’s a high schooler?” Pete asked, and the man nodded.

“Great,” Pete groaned, sliding down the wall. This wouldn’t be a fun soul collection, or worse, it would be a very fun one.

The band sucked for all the hype it was getting, and Pete was tempted to just cut a deal with one of them instead, but he reminded himself, he was here for a challenge. Challenge. Right.

***

Which was how the devil ended up wandering the halls at Glenview south the next day. Far too early. He hadn’t woken up before noon in over a decade, and that was an emergency. But he needed to keep tabs on Patrick. The target he corrected himself mentally. The kid was just a target.

He hadn’t realized how much schools had changed. Or how much ID he needed just to see a kid. He used to just be able to say “family member” but maybe American schools had learned since the last time. Of course, he was the devil. So ID was really more of a suggestion for him.

Pete decided he could go to the kid’s class if he really wanted to scare him, but then again, he could spare himself the humiliation of being reprimanded by a school teacher. So he leaned up against the kid’s locker, staring at his nails. They had chipped black paint on them at the moment, and he wondered if it was a bit much. He hoped not. He sort of liked the look.

A piercingly loud bell squealed in his ears, and he almost fell over at the sound of it. He straightened himself before Patrick rounded the corner, and his eyes widened at the sight of Pete. Pete’s face, he was almost certain, mirrored Patrick’s surprise.

Gone was the shimmery star in the tight suit and the cocky smirk, and in his place was someone who absolutely belonged in a bad 80’s movie. Patrick wore glasses and hunched over and covered his hair with a hat that was totally against dress code. The other night, he had appeared larger than life. Now he seemed almost small.

“Oh Jesus Christ!” Patrick growled, shoving Pete aside and fidgeting with his locker. Pete snorted.

“I don’t think you could get much more wrong, no,” he said. Patrick rolled his eyes, pulling a heavy history book out of his locker.

“You’re telling me I actually made a deal with the devil?” Patrick asked. He looked almost frightened, but mostly, he just seemed annoyed. And really small. Pete was certain he had been taller the other day.

“Yup,” Pete popped the ‘p’ sound, lounging on the locker next to his.

“Well, that’s fascinating,” Patrick said, sounding bemused with his own life. “Why is the devil at my high school?”

“It feels just like home,” Pete said, and Patrick chuckled.

“Hell on earth,” he agreed.

“I didn’t think you were a high schooler,” Pete began.

“Well, I am,” Patrick said, and made to walk away, but Pete held his arm out. “What?”

“I’m not done talking to you, sweetie,” Pete said.

“I’m done talking to you, and I have class,” Patrick said, ducking under Pete’s arm. Pete’s shoulders slumped a little as he watched Patrick walk off in the other direction.

Nobody tells the devil ‘no’.

***

Pete felt insulted by Patrick, but more than that, he felt… spurned. Like Patrick was annoyed by his presence. And Pete wasn’t that annoying. People had killed to spend time in the same town as him, and this teenager didn’t understand how lucky he was.

Clearly unwanted at the school, Pete found Patrick’s address from the office. (Women were somehow always charmed by him.) He went down to his house, rapped politely on the door, and was greeted by a woman that looked exactly like she lived in a nice Chicago suburb.

“Well, hello there,” she smiled sweetly. “And who are you?”

“I’m a friend of Patrick’s,” Pete said smoothly, and she nodded. “Could I wait here for him? We have a rather large project coming up.”

“Why aren’t you in school, then?” she asked.

“Not a school project, ma’am,” Pete said, still beaming at her. Dazzled, the woman ushered him in, and he sat down on the couch.

“Can I get you anything to eat?” she asked. Dazed. He just had that effect on people.

“Thank you, that would be lovely,” Pete agreed. He made it through nearly a pound of baby carrots and hummus, watching American Idol reruns while he waited for Patrick to return.

Eventually, after watching half a season, Patrick came in the door, dropping his coat and bag at the door and yelling: “Mom I’m home!” before turning and seeing Pete on the couch and jumping backwards.

“Jesus Christ!” he gasped again.

“Still no,” Pete said. “You aren’t very good with names, are you?”

“What should I call you, Satan?” Patrick asked, still clutching his chest and breathing deeply. Pete wrinkled his nose.

“Just Pete,” he said. Patrick snorted. “What?”

“Ah yes, the adversary, evil incarnate, Prince of Darkness, doer of evil, destroyer of nations, the temptor, Pete.” He was shaking with laughter.

“What?” Pete demanded again.

“Well, it’s not a very intimidating name, is it?” Patrick laughed.

“I like it,” Pete hissed, and he wasn’t blushing, was he? “It’s easy. It’s normal. It’s simple. You can’t go introducing yourself to just anyone as Lucifer.”

“Whatever, ‘Pete’,” Patrick laughed.

“Listen, sweetie,” Pete growled. Embarrassed. “We’re gonna start this competition, alright?”

“What, in my living room?” Patrick asked.

“Oh lemme guess,” Pete rolled his eyes, “You have to do homework now.”

“Well, I should,” Patrick said, “But I just thought it would be kinda weird.”

“We’re not having the competition here.” Pete said. “I’m opening for you tomorrow night, at the Devil’s Lounge.”

“Ironic.” Patrick spoke dryly. “How do we decide the winner?”

“Whoever is the most popular,” Pete said, smiling.

“You’re an opener, so it seems I’ve already won,” Patrick smirked, walking away from Pete and up the stairs to his room. Angry, Pete poofed to Patrick’s room ahead of him, sitting on the bed when Patrick opened the bed.

“JESUS CHRIST!” Patrick yelled, clutching his heart.

“Dude,” Pete glared at him. “So not my name. Also it may be more than just the one night.”

“Of course,” Patrick sighed. “Where might the devil be staying?”

This was the question Pete was hoping to receive, and he slid under the covers on Patrick’s bed, nuzzling down into the mattress itself to make his point.

“No,” Patrick said. “Absolutely out of the question.” His pretty eyes- what color was that, anyway? (the color of water, maybe, natural, in a run off of Lake Michigan as though his body had absorbed the surroundings)- were frozen over. ice cold. “I am not sharing a bed with the DEVIL. How would I possibly explain that to my mother?”

“Oh, Patrick, Rickster-”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Rick-ta-life, you are really hung up on this whole devil thing.” Pete grinned, playing it up. Patrick scowled, falling into the game just as Pete hoped he would. The rented room he had But-

“Fine, don’t be a blanket hog,” Patrick said. Unexpected. Pete sat up in the bed, hugging his knees up to his chest and letting the blanket bunch up at his waist.

“And how WILL you explain this to your mother?” he asked, quirking one eyebrow up. The kid rolled his eyes, obviously annoyed.

“I guess I’ll work something out,” he sighed.

That evening, Patrick tried actively to ignore Pete. Pete laid on his bed, reading Patrick’s assigned book for english. It wasn’t bad, if it was completely incorrect. Patrick, meanwhile, puzzled over a math assignment at his desk, alternating chewing on his lip and chewing on the end of his pencil. Finishing the book after an hour or so, Pete grew bored, and amused himself by finding the strangest places to sit, cheating a little bit with devil powers. Patrick tried to ignore this, but began to find it difficult when the new place Pete discovered to sit was on top of his head.

“Will you knock it off?” Patrick growled, jabbing Pete in the ribs with his pencil, which, hey, ow.

“I’m bored.” Pete informed him.

“That’s not my problem,” Patrick grumbled. “Go do devil shit. Steal someone’s soul. I don’t know. Tempt a priest.”

“Are you tempting me to tempt someone?” Pete asked, an amused grin on his face.

“I’m tempting you to leave me alone.” Patrick informed him.

“Can I ask you a question?” Pete asked, ignoring Patrick’s response.

“What would you do if I said, ‘You just did’?” Patrick asked.

“Why are you so different today?” Pete asked. Patrick froze, his muscles stiffening. He cast his eyes down to the ground and drew in his shoulders, making himself look even smaller than usual. Pete felt a sudden flood of remorse, sure he had hurt this guy’s feelings.

“It’s just stage,” Patrick muttered, so low Pete could barely hear it. He turned away from Pete, facing the homework again.

“You look shy on stage too,” Pete continued. He wasn’t a quitter, no one had ever called him that.

“It’s different.” Patrick mumbled.

“I can see that.”

“I mean, I’m different,” Patrick shrugged, still not facing Pete. “It’s almost like it’s not me, you know? Like I’m watching someone else.”

“But it IS you.” Pete said, feeling frustrated.

“No it’s not,” Patrick snapped. “I’m more myself onstage and I’m a shy little twerp when I’m not, can we drop it?”

“Fine,” Pete gave in. Patrick looked sort of deflated today, and it wasn’t worth fighting with. Pete began searching around the room, trying to find another book to read. The one shelf that had books on it was all jammed up with biographies of old musicians and X-Men comics.

“Do you have any novels in here?” Pete asked.

“Think my mom might have some Stephen King,” Patrick said offhandedly, chewing on his pencil again.

“You think my favorite genre is horror? That’s so stereotypical.”

“No, I think my mom’s favorite genre is horror, get over yourself.”

Pete finished another novel while Patrick did his homework, IMed friends on his computer, whatever teenagers did silently in their room these days. After hours that felt like centuries, Pete heard a cough from above his position on the bed.

Patrick stood above him, in ratty and baggy Batman pajamas. Glasses and hat off. Eyebrow raised. Pete just gawked at him for a moment, taking in the messy hair and sleepy eyes, and the vulnerability that a human hadn’t shown him in a very long time. It wasn’t until Patrick said “Move over asshole, I’m tired,” that he realized that, oh yes, he was sharing a bed with him.

Pete shifted over slightly in the bed, and Patrick curled up under the covers with him, sleeping on his side so that he was facing Pete, and with his knees drawn up towards his chest. Without a word to Pete, his eyes closed, softening his face and making him look so much younger. Pete’s breath caught in his chest as he felt Patrick’s knees and arms pressed up against him.

Not again.

***

Pete spent all of the next day at The Devil’s Lounge. He had had a hell of a night, waking up in the morning with Patrick’s arms and legs wrapped around him like a body pillow with a heartbeat. Patrick also didn’t wake up with his alarm clock, so Pete had to wake him by disentangling the two of them. Patrick blushed a bit, but seemed mostly too tired to care. After he stumbled off to school, Pete took a long shower at his house, that was extremely disappointing. Mortal showers got cold before the hour mark, so what was the real point?

The Devil’s Lounge was quiet as long as the sun was out. He sat by the window while the bartender wiped down tables, and around the time the high school would get out, Bebe showed up, smiling at him.

“You sure we’re ready to perform?” she had asked. Pete was ready before he had known she existed. As long as the mortal girl played her part, he had no doubt his plan would work. So long as he didn’t need to see Patrick again. He knew the price of falling for humans, yet logic never seemed to slow his heart.

They practiced a bit before the venue opened to let in the kids eager for a concert. Patrick came in the back, waving to Pete backstage and smiling like they were friends. Not in the mood to give up his facade, Pete smiled back at him, trying to make it look like a smirk.

Pete felt something fluttering in his stomach, a nervous twisting of his organs as Patrick went over chords with someone in his backing band. Pete wondered what poor sap was so desperate to be onstage that they would agree, in high school, to be in a backing band. Maybe Patrick had really nice friends. Pete sat there, staring at them, and feeling like he might throw up and if he did he would lose his lungs with it.

Stage fright, he realized suddenly. For the first time in millennia, he was experiencing stage fright because Patrick would be watching him. This was really, really bad.

Luckily, Pete knew what he was doing. Stage fright or no, he was good. He knew he was good, and the girl he had picked up was good too. He could hear a girl at the front say “Never seen an opener that good!” and “almost better than the headliner!” “they ARE better than Patrick” and other phrases of the like. He was grinning triumphantly when he came offstage, and felt a sick sense of victory when he saw Patrick staring at him and looking very nervous. Then just as suddenly, he felt guilty. NO.

Patrick didn’t seem to be exactly psyched out. He performed just as well as the night Pete met him. Maybe better. Pete growled under his breath. The crowd was engaged, energized. Eating out of the palm of Patrick’s hand. When he got back stage, dripping sweat, he gave Pete a sickly smile.

Pete’s only consolation throughout the day was that he wouldn’t have to put up with Patrick for long, but now he was certain to lose, and that was something Pete didn’t think he would have to think about.

Fortune, however, was in Pete’s favor. As Patrick was packing up the van, and Pete was listening to Bebe blathering on about how awesome they were, a man approached them.

“Patrick Stump?” he asked. Patrick muttered something under his breath about; “Not another one,” but Pete was fairly certain that the man didn’t catch it.

“And the Black Cards, right?” the man asked Pete and Bebe. “I saw your performances tonight. I was wondering if your two acts would be interested in performing at my place in Chicago.”

“Absolutely!” Patrick said, beaming.  Bebe was nodding excitedly, and Pete gave the man a small, cold smile, that made him draw back, but he shook himself off and continued.

“Excellent, then,” he said, smiling at them all fondly, condescendingly. Pete hated those that worked in the music industry. He could practically see the slime oozing off of this man. “I’ll clear a spot for you next Saturday, then? Of course, we already have a headliner scheduled, but I’m sure they won’t mind something a little earlier. And maybe afterwards we can talk about doing more business together.”

Patrick couldn’t be falling for this, Pete thought, looking over at the kid, but he was smiling, albeit carefully, hesitantly.

“What’s the venue?” Pete asked, trying not to sound annoyed.

“The House of Blues,” he said, giving Pete a superior look. Pete didn’t scowl on the outside, but he had to use heavy self restraint to not roll his eyes. He made it sound like the coolest thing in the world, and it WAS a big deal, but Pete had played the House of Blues before. Long before. The man wouldn’t have recognized him.

“Um, uh, absolutely!” Patrick said, stuttering and puffing his chest out for this guy. Pete wanted to scream. He was far more worth Patrick’s time than this idiot. He didn’t want to be jealous, and yet here he was…

“I’ll call you, then,” he promised, and walked away.

Patrick turned to Pete and opened his mouth, but Pete shushed him, gesturing to Bebe who looked, in Pete’s opinion, rather faint. Patrick nodded.

Once home, (or rather, Patrick’s house, not home, dammit, Pete was slipping) Patrick grinned at him.

“I believe I won,” he stated proudly.

“Oh no, you have not won anything,” Pete said. “We were both invited to play, remember?”

“Well,” Patrick looked put out, “Yes, but-”

“Next Saturday,” Pete said, tone crisp, trying to put some distance between himself and the kid, “We’ll test the decibels of audience response. Winner take all.”

“Fine!” Patrick grumbled. Then: “I won’t die if you take my soul, right?”

Pete snorted. “Obviously not. People sell me their souls all the time. And I like Chicago. Who do you think put Daley in office?”

“Oh my god!” Patrick yelped. Post show Patrick was so pretty up close. He hadn’t had a chance to shower yet, and he looked like he had just had sex or something. Afterglow. That quiet contentedness that permeated the air around him, the smell of stage sweat filling the room. It shouldn’t have been attractive.

“Now isn’t the time to be crying for god, sweetie,” Pete said, but with an oddly indulgent smile. He didn’t want to like this kid, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Any presidents?” Patrick asked, trying to look like he wasn’t terrified. Puffing out his chest and lifting his chin as though he could handle anything. Aside from being adorable, it was very courageous, Pete thought.

“Multiple,” Pete said. “Some were easy. I like the more complicated jobs. And let me tell you, my old pal Lyndon-”

“YOU KILLED JOHN F. KENNEDY?!” Patrick screeched, and Pete froze, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“Now you’ve done it,” he whispered, and went invisible. Patrick’s mom entered the room, wearing a bathroom and a look of intense concern.

“Nightmare?” she asked sleepily.

“Yeah mom,” Patrick choked out, his eyes still wide and frightened enough for that to be believable, even though he was still wearing a button up and slacks. “Go back to sleep, I’m fine.”

“Alright, sweetie,” she said, and he flinched at the word ‘sweetie’. Pete couldn’t help but smirk as he reappeared.

“You killed John F Kennedy?” Patrick whispered hoarsely.

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” Pete winked. Not very well, but the growly face he made to squeeze one eye shut seemed to add to the effect.

“You’ve killed people,” Patrick said, not asking.

“I’m the devil.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It wasn’t a question.”

“You’re impossible,” Patrick declared. “And you kick in the night.”

“Well you sleep grind, but I wasn’t gonna mention it,” Patrick turned bright red, and stalked away, muttering under his breath about a shower.

Pete lay down in Patrick’s bed, hoping to be asleep before Patrick came back. No such luck. A devil with insomnia, who’d have thought. Patrick returned, all sleepy eyes and floppy hair with water still glistening on his neck and arms.

Patrick immediately lay down next to Pete, curving up next to him, an arm automatically wrapping around Pete’s waist. Pete sighed in contentment, leaning into the touch and falling asleep as soon as he heard the sound of Patrick’s breathing, steady and even.

***

“Whether you win or lose this bet, kid, I’m gonna get you a body pillow.” Pete promised the next morning, grumbling a little as he tried to pull himself out of Patrick’s arms. His back had gone sticky with Patrick’s sweat, but Patrick did not look the least bit abashed today.

Most of the weekends were, in Patrick’s world, music. Non-stop guitar and drums and bass and trumpet. Trumpet. Who was this kid?

Pete, on the other hand, tore through Patrick’s mother’s entire Stephen King collection, and then her Game of Thrones, Patrick’s Watchmen, and eventually starting zapping his own favorites right in front of him.

“The Picture of Dorian Gray?” Patrick asked. “Where do I even start with the irony?”

“Are you referring,” Pete began, not moving his eyes from the page he was no longer reading. “To the fact that you perfectly exemplify Dorian Gray, with your fair hair and musical talent and willingness to sell your soul to the devil?”

“I was more referring to the devil reading it,” Patrick said dryly, and began to play his drum kit. Loudly.

The weekdays were slightly more interesting. With nothing else to do, Pete could bother Patrick at school, aiming spitballs at him from the window or dropping books on the heads of jock types to make Patrick snort. He felt like a common poltergeist, but Patrick kept smiling at him, and he kept doing it.

Pete also had plenty to do with Bebe, trying to make The Black Cards into something that could take the world by storm. Falling in love or not, Pete couldn’t afford to lose this soul.

It wasn’t until Wednesday night that they had much of an encounter, aside from falling asleep together each night. Nighttime was already Pete’s favorite part of the day, but now his heart started to race when it grew dark outside. He felt his breath rising up in his chest and the flush in his skin wouldn’t calm down until Patrick’s arm encircled his waist, instantly soothing him and putting him quickly to sleep. Pete hadn’t slept this well in- ever.

But that Wednesday, Pete was bugging Patrick as usual, his fingers tangled in Patrick’s hair and humming ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’ directly in Patrick’s ear while he tried to work on geometry. Eventually, Patrick turned around and shoved Pete to the ground.

“Knock it off,” he demanded with gritted teeth. “I’m working.”

“But I,” Pete said, leaning forward, “am bored. Talk to me.”

“About what?” Patrick asked.

“Why do you play music?” Pete asked. Patrick snorted.

“That’s a dumb question,” he declared. Pete raised one eyebrow in cool curiosity.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because,” Patrick said, brushing hair out of his eyes, “I mean, god, why don’t I play music? It’s all I’m good at, people like it, I love it, Christ, I love it.”

Pete stared at the kid, his eyes glazed over in a look of passionate intensity, and Pete felt a pang in his heart.

“I think I’m going to go to bed early,” Pete said, kicking off his shoes and crawling under the covers. He tried to drown out the sound of Patrick’s existence with his muddled thoughts, but they were still there, the rustling and breath and skin rubbing against skin. And Pete couldn’t do this.

***

On the far side of Wednesday, Saturday seemed far too close to Pete. It must have seemed closer to Patrick too, as often when he thought Pete wasn’t watching his face would turn ashy gray and he would stare off into the distance in a look of undirected concern. Pete halfheartedly asked him what was wrong, and Patrick gave him a withering look.

Pete was still practicing with Bebe all the time too, trying to whip her into shape before the concert, but she was much more ready than him. Pete felt a little guilty that he was going to ditch the girl as soon as he had Patrick’s soul, but she was talented. She would find something else to do.

Saturday crawled ever closer, and Pete could tell how nervous Patrick was by how tight he clung to Pete in the night, murmuring worriedly into Pete’s shoulder. Pete couldn’t do this.

***

When the day finally came, all of them rode down to the city together. Patrick’s leg was shaking so fast it seemed to be blurry. Pete asked if he was nervous, so quietly no one else could hear it, and even as Patrick was shaking, he grinned widely, and mouthed ‘You wish’. Well.

Of course, none of Patrick’s band or Pete’s had any idea what was going on, and they all chattered excitedly about the press they were going to get. They were all working together, with no idea this was a competition.

As the skyline bled into view, Pete’s hand crawled across the seat and gave Patrick’s a reassuring squeeze. Patrick’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.

The bands were given separate dressing rooms, but they were connected, and Bebe was friends with the girl that played keyboard for Patrick, so the door was kept propped open, in the hour they were given to set up. Pete couldn’t help but stare as Patrick transformed from suburban boy, provincial and small, to Patrick Stump, star on the stage. Bigger eyes, wider stance, broader shoulders and a higher chin. He came to life.

Perhaps one of the many reasons he was so nervous was that Patrick was set to go on first. It was just like Patrick had said- the opener automatically loses.

Patrick walked over to Pete, just before he was about to go on with the pretense of having Pete help him with his bowtie. Pete didn’t know shit about bow ties.

“Listen,” Patrick said, staring Pete in the eyes, bold as ever. “I just wanted to tell you that I-” Patrick trailed off, staring at Pete, and suddenly changed direction. “I just wanted to let you know I’ll miss you.”

“What?” Pete asked blankly. Whatever he had expected, it hadn’t been that.

“I’ve grown, I don’t know, fond of you,” Patrick said, a tiny flush appearing on his cheeks. “And I’ll miss having you around. I really- like you.” He had hesitated before the word like. He had. Oh god, this couldn’t be happening. He didn’t mean to say ‘like’, Pete knew it.

“Get on stage.” Pete spoke gruffly. “Good luck.”

Patrick shot him a small, hopeful smile just before he stepped onstage. Pete stared at his back for a second. Then he told Bebe he was leaving, and wished her good luck on her own, not listening as she called after him. He went out front, and waded into the crowd. He deserved one last concert.

***

“Wentzzzzzzz,” he heard the familiar hissing in his ear as he stepped out into the chilly Chicago air.

“What?” he asked, tiredly.

“You were un successssssssful,” it hissed gleefully.

“So I was,” Pete agreed gloomily.

“Regrettably,” it spoke, its voice grating against him, “I mussssst inform you that there issssss another chanccccce for you.”

“Really?” Pete asked, a loose smile forming on his face.

“The mortal hassssss fallen in love,” it began, and Pete froze. “Get him to kisssss you, and hisssss ssssoul ssshall be ourssss, and you ssssshall ssssurvive as one like I.”

“And if I don’t?” Pete asked. Still standing stone still. Facing forward.

“Unsssspeakable horrorssss,” it promised. Disappeared. Pete gulped, and ran around back to where the tour busses were. Patrick was loading up, looking kind of sad, and Pete grabbed his shoulder, pulling him around.

“Hey!” Pete said, smiling at him.

“Where’d you go?” Patrick asked, his face brightening as he saw Pete.

“I wanted to see your show,” Pete said, smiling at Patrick. “You won.”

“That’s not fair, you didn’t even play,” Patrick argued.

“Doesn’t matter.” Pete shook his head. “You won.”

“So what, I keep my soul?” Patrick asked, half laughing.

“I-” Pete cut himself off, unsure of what to say. He took a hesitant step forward. “I don’t really want this to be over,” he admitted.

“Gotten attached?” Patrick teased. Pete nodded wordlessly, leaning in closer. Patrick leaned in too, his face growing serious as though he suddenly understood the gravity of the situation.

“You shouldn’t play with fire, sweetie,” Pete warned.

“I don’t care,” Patrick said. “I would’ve missed you if you’d left.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that to things like me,” Pete warned.

“I don’t care,” he repeated.

“And you still want me,” Pete chuckled low and dark.

“A-around, yeah, I still want you around,” Patrick stuttered.

Pete broke the reverie, stepping away and turning around.

“I should go,” he said. He heard Patrick scream behind him, which startled him far more than the appearance of his superior.

“You have failed,” it informed him coolly.

“Deal’s off,” Pete said. “I won’t do it.”

“You’ve making a grave mistake,” it promised.

“I’ll take the ‘unssspeakable punishment’,” Pete declared. “You’re not getting his soul.”

Pete’s supervisor grinned, a face full of malice.

“In that case,” it purred, “I sentence you to live out your mortal life!” It disappeared in a puff of smoke.

“What,” Patrick was shaking, “What the FUCK was that?” he gasped. Pete was blinking at Patrick though, unsure as to what had just happened.

“My employer,” Pete said, absentmindedly. “I said that the worst thing was to be mortal, so I’m- I’m mortal now.”

“Who employs the devil?” Patrick shrieked, a bit hysteric.

“Mortal,” Pete repeated, a small grin on his face. He stepped towards Patrick, and repeated “Mortal.”

Pete grabbed Patrick’s lower back, pulling him in close and kissing him long and hard. Patrick made a sort of ‘hmmph’ noise at first, but soon melted into Pete’s arms, kissing him back.

“You won, sweetie,” Pete said as he pulled away, beaming at Patrick. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

“And more of the kissing, yeah?” Patrick asked, staring dazedly at Pete. He nodded.

“We could date? Mortals date, yeah?” Pete chuckled.

“My boyfriend is the devil,” Patrick laughed. Still looking happily dazed.

“One HELL of a boyfriend,” Pete said with a wink. “Now come on, let’s work on your music. I think I promised you a grammy.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> hey gang you know the drill- support ur author by reading/leaving some kudos on The High Way to Hell. Thanks for reading!


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